From A Work in Progress
Margo was ready to walk out the door – one last quick look in the mirror -- slipping again. No! Not going to be Alice, no more looking glass, no more Mad Hatter. She knew what she saw. She saw what she knew. John, her Mad Hatter: no, no, no – this morning was real. Ready now. Andrea would never know she hadn’t even been able to dress herself properly, that she had almost cancelled several times.
Another deep breath, she picked up her handbag, walked down the hall to push the button for the elevator. The elevators were slow today – slow, slow, slow. She checked herself in the mirror again. Mirrors everywhere. She was okay. It was the service elevator that arrived. When the door opened, she stepped right in and found a young man inside. For months after they had moved into the building, she had ridden the elevators alone. But today there was a man coming down from the penthouse two floors above them: immaculate, white t-shirt pristine, blue jeans pressed, a sharp crease prominent, dark hair neatly combed, about 29. About Brett’s age when he died.
But why, if he were a workman, why would he be dressed this way? Had she fallen into that trap? That one that says, if he looks Hispanic, he is a workman. Don’t be too hard on yourself. He’s in the service elevator, for God’s sake. Well, so are you! She had stepped into the first set of open doors. She knew that the new owners of the penthouse were Hispanic, Latino. A son? The owner?
The man nodded to her, stepped back against the wall, his muscular six foot frame shrinking into the corner. He crossed his arms, eyes darting everywhere. Maybe he didn’t speak English. She got in, nodded hello and turned around immediately to face the front door. She took another look at him and asked, “Which floor?”
“P1”.
That was where she was going, where her car was parked. P1 wasn’t lit up. Why wasn’t the floor pushed? Well, of course, if he were a workman, he would be under security control. Without the resident’s key, he couldn’t access any floor except the main lobby where the staff would then give him entry to the correct location. But maybe he just hadn’t brought his key with him or didn’t have one yet. She pushed the button. The door closed. She felt a tingling in her fingertips – the kind she felt sometimes when she had just escaped from an accident – when she had come too close for comfort to another car. She looked at the floor location numbers over the doors. Panic took over. She pushed the button for the next floor. She turned to him and lied, “This is where I am going,”
She stepped out on the 7th floor and stood there. Mirrors here too in the elevator lobby! Dammit –no escape!
She knew that the harder she tried to run, the more entrapped she would be. But she also knew that if you put together enough different ways to run, you can escape -- for a little while at least. Just the night before she’d gone to the movies. The father of an eleven-year-old boy had died in the 911 terror attack. And the kid was struggling to come to terms with his loss. He searched everywhere for a link to his father, for a message from him. Margo had found herself sobbing as the boy ran all over New York, from one lead to the next, from one person to another listening to their stories, sharing his, leaving empty and unfulfilled, no closer to finding his father, no closer to seeing him again, no closer to soothing the burning hole within himself. She knew she was watching herself – her ceaseless activity. Running, running, running in place.
The man in the elevator. He looked like her son Brett. She had to find him – that man. Why had she stepped out? How could she have left him? She jabbed at the down button, pushing it again, again, again. There were no numbered lights to show which floor the elevator was on. How slow can the elevators be! Today of all days! Maybe he was still down on P1. If he were a workman, he would be getting things out of the car. Otherwise . . . don’t think about that. He’s there! She shifted from one foot to the other. Maybe the stairs. But then she might be stuck forever in the stairwell. Doors on each floor were locked for security.
What if he weren’t there, if no one were. She was just dreaming, hoping. There was no way out. Sartre was right – Huis Clos! She had to go back and sit upstairs alone with the photos of the family. Yes, they’d been a family once – an all-American family – a photo op! That’s all that remained now – photos -- black and white, color too – full color. Yes, she had to go back upstairs to the photo tombstones. She had to be alone in the room with them. She pushed the other button, the UP. Hedge your bets! UP or DOWN! HEAVEN or HELL!? All the same. Leave it up to the elevator computer gods – they know as much as you now.
She was going mad. Even if Andrea were already on her way. Didn’t matter. No lunch, she couldn’t! Margo was out of stuffing now – limp, a Raggedy Ann. The only doll she had ever wanted.
She knew Brett had come to see her once after he had died- just a year or so later. He was in crisp jeans then too and a t-shirt, and by the time she had abandoned her disbelief and had started to follow him through the crowd in the shopping mall, he was gone. And now, maybe here he was again. They say the dead come back to visit only once, but here was visit number two.
Finally, the elevator! She stepped in again. Down – okay, that’s where she had to go. The elevator calling the shots. Better than she! Not the service elevator this time. No one else there. She pushed P1 again. She looked at her watch – at least a minute gone. Enough time for a life to vanish. She ran out of the elevator into the garage.
She looked all around her. No one in sight. He must be there. She was sure he was. She walked up the ramp, the one that headed out of the dark into the light, into the world. . . he wasn’t there. There weren’t even any trucks belonging to people working in the building that day. She walked back, past her car to the next level down where the light diminished until it was impossible to tell the difference between night and day. No one there either. Back up to her car.
She had to get out of there! She was seeing things again – souls in elevators. Or was he real? What is real? Anything? Life? There never was, never had been someone in the elevator, but he was in the corner, so handsome, so clean, so clear.
She sat down in the driver’s seat, checked the seat adjustment, looked in the rear view mirror to back out, backwards, back, still reverse – not forward. Shift now, pass through neutral into drive. Keep moving! She heard Michael say, “Mom, for heaven’s sake, put on your seat belt!” Okay, there she was, up that ramp again out into the daylight, advancing. Was it safe to drive? Yes! Of that she was sure. She felt confident behind the wheel of a car. She could just get in, push the buttons, and make a choice– classical, pop, jazz, news, rap, a CD.
Driving for her was almost automatic. She pulled out of the garage and turned right onto Wilshire Boulevard. It was entirely natural to look at the traffic and judge when it was safe to merge. It happened without thinking.
As she blended into the traffic on Wilshire, heading east to Beverly Hills, she put on the classical station, KUSC and was greeted by a Rachmaninoff piano concerto – it sounded like Sturm und Drang to her today. Why do they always play piano concertos around noon, not violin concertos? Violins carried her away – they were romantic, transporting, an escape to other worlds, other lives. She changed the station – still no luck. She switched from FM to AM. Still not what she wanted. She pushed the CD control button, then tried the first disc – not right, then number two, and finally – third’s a charm. The Brahms Double Concerto. She relaxed.
If only you could just punch those buttons, change the station, find a new announcer and change your life!!
Button One – A weekend at San Ysidro!
Button Two -- Your flight to Paris is waiting!
Button Three – You get to start over. Prince Charming is just outside the door on a white horse. He brought one for you too.
Button Four –A trip to Africa waits where women are expecting you and you can bring them the drugs that will cure AIDS, stop AIDS, eradicate AIDS.
Button Five – Your book that you haven’t yet written, the one entitled I Forgot to Remember to Forget has been accepted by Harper Row. You have a $500,000 advance and you don’t have to submit the manuscript until you are good and ready.
Button Six – Pick up the magic pen, and your book will write itself.
The Concerto, the magic pen -- she composed a letter
Virginia Woolf, Editor
Hogarth Press
London, England
Dear Ms. Woolf:
For some reason, I think that you may be able to help determine whether or not my work is worthy of publication. It is not at all clear to me that I do wish to publish, but I like to write, and clearly, to publish is not a choice I am even privileged to make at this time.
Certainly, you had many stories to tell, but I am most drawn to Mrs. Dalloway. Since the most repetitive scene I have had in my dreams, and might I add, one that I have never understood despite intense psychotherapy, is that of a party, I thought you might understand and might be able to help me sort out the rest of my life. And as we will never know exactly why you took your life at the river that day, I can only presume that you found your life’s circumstances intolerable, that there were many difficulties you could never resolve despite the great joys you experienced and your profound insights into human nature. There are moments when I feel that way, but that is not why I would not want to publish.
I do not want my very nice husband to know that I have wondered now off and on for 47 years whether I should have made another choice, though the years have brought us closer. I do not want my sister to be embarrassed because I am not afraid to tell my story; it will be humiliating to her that a member of the family is willing to share some of her deepest secrets even though these confidences may be found by many to be tedious. I do not want my daughter to wish she had another mother – we have spent so much time strengthening what is now a most loving and respectful and joyful relationship. I do not want my granddaughter to wish for another family. I do not wish to sully the memory of my sons.
Why then, you may ask, am I sending this letter. That is a good question and one for which I do not have an answer, but I believe that if you read my manuscript and if your husband agrees to publish it, I will find the answers to many of the perplexities of my life. You have navigated both the joyous and dark aspects of the female mind and will understand my vacillations between joy and despair. Of course, should editing be necessary, I am willing to work with you in any way that is appropriate, including meeting you at any location that might best suit you.
To assist you in determining whether you wish to pursue my inquiry, I have attached some writing samples along with a resume.
Most sincerely,
Margo Randolph
She pulled into the parking lot on Beverly Drive – the one that runs between Beverly and Canon Drives. She looked at the clock. It was 11:56. She’d beaten the lunch hour rush and was able to find parking on the third level. Up in the elevator. No one else in this one. Cross the street. There was Andrea just approaching Porta Via, the café where they’d decided to meet. Though crowded, the tables outside were separate enough so that a feeling of privacy was possible, and they could talk, and this afternoon the weather had cleared enough so that sitting outside was possible.
“Hi,” a hug, a pat on the back, a sigh or two, and they sat down. “I know how busy you are,” Andrea said to Margo. “It means so much to me that you could find the time to meet me.” Margo mumbled something, trying to sound sincere about how glad she was to be there. She didn’t even think – it just came out by rote -- second nature from all those years of her mother’s harping.
Andrea looked okay.
Some people shed tears, mourn, are depressed, and move on. Some people seem to have no feelings when they are bubbling vats of hot black tar inside. Some people show everything and the openness fades to nothing. Some parse out feelings bit by bit, a slow leaking hose, and you worry that your spark might cause an explosion. Some people go through the daily automatic challenges of living, hearts pumping, brains working – smiling, laughing, conversing, but they register flat lines on the Richter scale. No fantasies, no sadness, no hopes – survival --limbo. Which was Andrea? Which was she?
They ordered their salads, and Margo decided to dive right in. She didn’t want to make small talk, nor did she want this lunch to last forever. “You’ve been through such a tough time, I know. I’m so sorry. I know what it’s like to go through a long illness with a loved one.” Margo sat there looking at Andrea and wondered what the difference was between losing a spouse and losing one’s children. There must be a huge difference. Perhaps not. Grief is grief. Helplessness is helplessness. Struggling to accept to loss and change is devastating – husband, child – it doesn’t matter. Of course, she could relate.
“I know you know what it’s like, but I’m doing fairly well, “ said Andrea. Somehow, I think that dealing with death when it’s been anticipated is easier than a sudden loss. I’m lonely, but I’m doing okay.”
Margo looked at her. She was amazed. She’d often said to people that in some ways she was certain that pre-grieving makes the finality of death easier. Now here were her thoughts and words without attribution. She was so full of BS!! Should she tell her now the big lies?
It gets better, but it only gets worse. You become whole again, but others define you by your deficits, your loss. It’s the first thing they think about – oh, she’s a widow now. Oh, two of her three children died -- AIDS, you know.
You’ll find serenity, but you’ll never stop running.
You need to pray for acceptance, but there is no God.
“Actually, I have something else I wanted to talk to you about,” Andrea continued. I am getting back to the real world and getting out with people. . A friend of mine who knows of your work here and abroad with AIDS treatments and drugs asked me if you might be interested in going back to work.”
Margo looked at her. On the way over, she had been thinking about how great it would be if she could find a job but rejected that idea -- her age was too big a stumbling block. . She used to say to Tom, “I’ll never be able to get back to work. I’m too old.” Tom would answer right on cue, “Nonsense,” and more often than not, she’d go out and find something interesting. Now if she talked about age, he was silent, and she didn’t have the resiliency to handle the inevitable rejection a job search would yield. The other day, she’d bemoaned to her daughter, “I’m old. Katie said, ‘Yes! You are!” Now right here was Andrea, whom she hadn’t wanted to see, presenting a possibility.
“Gosh – work – I hadn’t really thought about it.” Margo answered.
“Well, you should. My friend with Quinn’s Pharmaceuticals was elated when I mentioned that I was having lunch with you. He told me you might be just the person he needs.”
Margo looked over Andrea’s shoulder out at the sidewalk and watched the people walking by for a moment. She could feel her heart beating against her ribcage. She couldn’t do it. “I really don’t think so. Life without the responsibility of a job is pretty darn good.”
“That’s too bad. It sounded as though he had something rather unusual in mind.” And she changed the subject. “How is your granddaughter?”
Margo answered, “She’s growing up and doing just fine.” She didn’t want to talk about her. Her mind was elsewhere.
Back at the car radio control. What was one of those buttons? Oh, yes, travel, a book published. Dreams. This was real. A return to life. “You know what, Andrea? I’d love to talk to your friend.”
© Brenda R Freiberg, 2012